


Spring Will Come Again

by innerglow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Temporary Character Death, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Post-Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerglow/pseuds/innerglow
Summary: After Cold Oak, the Winchester's take a break and enjoy Dean's last year.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aeipathetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeipathetic/gifts).



> This was written as part of the [spn-j2-xmas](http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com) exchange on LJ. My giftee is: [aeipathetic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aeipathetic)
> 
> Note to my giftee: So sorry this is a few days late, but I hope you enjoy this. <3

It wasn’t planned and it definitely wasn’t something they ever talked about doing, but Sam and Dean found themselves settled down in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of the South Dakota plains.

It was only supposed to be a short-term hole up, something that would allow Sam to get back on his feet after everything in Cold Oak went down. It was more at Dean’s insistence than anything else, because if Sam had it his way, they would have left the next day. But Dean argued tooth and nail, and the scar at Sam’s spine ached with every reason Dean littered at his feet. There was something in Dean’s expression every time he asked Sam to give him a few more days, that somehow melted every single rebuttal that Sam could come up with.

And so, spring eventually turned into summer and somehow the anxiety Sam felt in his bones, slowly dwindled into comfortability and dare he say it-- _normalcy_. Dean smiled at him more, his gaze less worried and more relaxed. They created a new routine, one that was lacking in all things that were written in their dad’s journal and abundant in the soft cotton feelings of finally being  safe.

Dean worked out in the yard, tending to the seeds they planted off to the side of the decrepit barn. His shoulders working under the weight of the summer sun, the back of his neck sparkling with the dew of sweat. And Sam sat inside and read books by the dozens, bringing Dean full glasses of water when his eyes started to ache around the edges of so many pages. They kept each other busy like this, day in and day out. Sam waited for that restless feeling to crawl under his ribs, but the more he waited for it, the longer it seemed to escape him.

It’s late into August when Dean finally tells Sam the truth about Cold Oak, about the deal he made to bring him back. And it’s then, under the stars, that Sam feels that almost forgotten pang in his ribs--the one that burns and calls itself ‘anger’. It’s thick and it’s coarse, it cloaks every sunshiney day that follows. And him and Dean move through the rest of the summer in complete silence.

Halfway through October, Sam is stumbling around their makeshift kitchen, trying to make a stew with the fresh produce from their garden and the rabbit meat Dean brought in earlier in the week. Dean’s usually the one that cooks the meals, as anything beyond peanut butter and jelly completely mystifies him. But Sam can’t sit still anymore, his thoughts racing together and jumbling like a loose ball of yarn. So he does what he can to busy his mind and body. He takes up jogging again, going for long runs down the gravel road that goes on and on in each direction, forever. He stops reading and starts fixing up the furniture in the house, taking hours out of each day to strip, sand, and repaint. And now, he decides to tackle the mystery of cooking a decent meal.

He cuts the carrots in different shapes and scrunches his nose when they don’t look like they should. They look haphazard and carelessly done, but he shrugs and tosses them into the pot. He follows suit with potatoes and onions. Eventually, the pot is full of veggies and then he takes the rabbit broth he boiled earlier and pours it over the mound of sad looking veggies. He adds in the rabbit meat and finishes the pot with some water, salt and pepper. He leaves it on the stove to cook and prays it’s somewhat eatable in a few hours.

Dean’s spoon clanks in the bowl as he leans back in a newly redone kitchen chair and he smiles up at Sam. He says something about how he never knew Sam had the cooking gene, but apparently, he was wrong. And then he goes into a long exasperated monologue about how the carrots shouldn’t be triangles, but more like circles. And there’s something that itches in the back of Sam’s throat as he finishes his own bowl. It is strong and violent, has him coughing on his last spoonful of broth.

He hasn’t said a damned word to his Brother in weeks, but finally, his mouth opens and out stumbles a scrabble board of letters and words. It starts with things like, _you should’ve let me die_ and _I can’t believe you’d do this to me, to you--to us_. And it ends with the sour acceptance that the ghost of spring will take Dean’s last breath. Dean doesn’t say anything, he just wraps his fingers around Sam’s forearm and squeezes in understanding.

November comes and goes, it brings fewer silences and takes the bounty of garden fresh vegetables. By Thanksgiving, they’re eating mostly gamy meat and potatoes. It leaves a strong taste in their mouths, but at least it keeps them satisfied.

It’s Christmas before they know it and they’re opening sadly wrapped presents by the tree Dean had chopped down and dragged inside. Dean smiles when he opens up some things he can work on Baby with, things that Sam bought at the gas station 20 or so miles up the road. And Sam feels his throat constrict when he opens up the necklace he gave to Dean so long ago. At first, he’s confused and then the finality of it washes over him. When Dean goes, he wants Sam to keep it. But of course, that means letting go. And Sam’s just not sure he’ll ever be able to.

They celebrate the New Year getting wasted on sickeningly strong corn whiskey that Dean made himself. It chokes down the beast of time and lets them laugh like they used to. They play strip poker and Dean’s fifteen shades of embarrassed when a fully dressed Sam has him down to his boxers. And when Sam throws down a full house, Dean tackles him to the ground and wrestles Sam’s shirt off of his body. It’s a lot of elbow jabs and knee’d ribs later that they find themselves in a state of mind they haven’t been in since before Cold Oak.

Sam lets Dean fuck him there in the living room, a half empty bottle of corn whiskey and two hands of cards as their witness. It’s rough and needful, hungry and devilish with want. It’s loud and unreserved and it has them both grunting out wildly when they reach the edge of that delicate utopia. When they’re coming down, they lie side by side on the floor and try to catch their breaths.

February comes and with it brings a stack of books that cover all subjects relating to demons, Hell, and crossroads deals. Sam tries to hide them from his Brother, but he knows that Dean knows exactly what he’s up to. He’s just surprised when Dean doesn’t say anything about it and instead goes about his days like there’s not a worry in his world.

It’s not until the first sprigs of March start to sprout, that Dean starts to get cagey. Sam notices it in small things, in ways that Dean drops things, or how he forgets simple things, or how he seems distracted and unfocused. And the more Sam notices, the more he starts to panic that he might not find the miracle that will somehow untie the noose around his Brother’s throat.

Because what if? What if he runs out of time?

April comes and with it, it brings a big black cloud that sits in the middle of their lives. It reeks of death and promises of what’s to be. It has them both wringing their hands, has them both pacing the floors and worrying holes into their bottom lips. Because they’re a whisper away from that trap door in the floor. It’s dressed like a black hole and threatens to take everything away from them.

When the first rain of spring comes, Dean grabs Sam by the hand and leads him outside. He pulls him into the middle of the field that sprawls in front of their house, and there they stand, hand in hand, the rain splashing onto their skins. It feels like a sort of penance, like a sort of last rite--a celebration, a baptism. It brings a smile to their worry-lined faces and clears the heavy weight from both of their shoulders.

The night before Sam’s birthday, they give it their all. Dean cooks them steaks with corn on the cob and baked potatoes. He even brings home donuts and candles from the store up the road. It’s over the top and more than it needs to be, but Sam knows Dean’s trying to make this last one a special one. Trying to somehow paint a beautiful sunset over the ugliness that will claw its way from the depths of Hell. And it’s hard, it’s the hardest thing Sam’s ever done--but he grins and bears it. He lets Dean have this last thing, lets him have one last happy memory before he has to give his soul over.

It’s fifteen minutes before midnight and Dean’s spooning Sam on their bed. Dean is everywhere, his arms crossing over Sam’s chest, his breath heavy and hot on Sam’s neck, his heartbeat strong and sure against Sam’s back. Sam closes his eyes and tries to memorize every detail about this moment, tries to stow away his Brother’s pine and spice scent. Tries to collect the feeling of home, tries to take photographic memories of everything as it is, so he can hang them up in the morning--so he never forgets.

Midnight comes and with it comes the one thing Sam has been trying so hard to prevent. But nothing could stop the violence that rips through the door and claws its way into Dean’s chest. One minute Dean’s by his side and the next he’s cradling his Brother’s lifeless body on the floor. It’s fast and it feels sharp and deep. But Sam clings to Dean’s last words, clings to them like they’re the only thing that will keep him afloat.

_Thank you for giving me this last year; It’s meant more than you know, Sammy._

Sam buries Dean on the other side of the barn, opposite of their garden. And in the morning, he pulls the amulet over his head and watches the sunrise over the horizon. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the warmth of the sun as Dean’s presence before him and even though his eyes still ache with tears, a smile weaves its way across his lips.

He gives Dean the rest of May, gives him what he promised--for Sam to leave it be. But by the time June rolls around, he’s tinkering around under the hood of Baby and neglecting the garden and himself. July hits and he’s flying down the road behind the wheel, on his way to Sioux Falls. And by the time August wheezes its last breath, Bobby’s running out of options and Sam’s getting desperate. He finds himself on his knees at the same crossroads Dean found himself at, he tries pleading his own soul away--tries righting what Dean undid. But no demon is willing to play.

Bobby sends him home in September, tells him to either pick up what he put down at the farmhouse or to pick up hunting again. Tells him the only way to keep living is to keep himself busy, cause nothing’s gonna bring him back. Tells him to not let Dean to have died in vain, tells him to not throw away the gift that feels more like a knife blade in the back. It’s a jagged pill to swallow and Sam crosses half of the United States, finds himself in bar brawls and trying to half-heartedly go on hunts. Almost like he’s got a death wish himself, almost like he’s laughing in the face of it--taunting it to come get him.

But by the middle of September, he’s pulling up in front of the old farmhouse and cursing the brown garden beside the barn. It’s wilted into nothing with the neglect of tending hands and water. A sadness creeps up his spine as he walks by it and around to the place his Brother lies. The dirt still looks unmoved, still looks just as tight as when he packed it with the back of his shovel. And he lets go of that last bout of hope he had tied around his aching heart and sighs into the heat of the day. Before he turns for the house, he promises Dean that he’ll fix the garden and that he’ll quit looking for death around every corner. Tells him he’ll do what Dean wanted for him--that he’ll keep safe and that he’ll live a good life.

Two days later, there’s a nasty lightning storm and it sprouts a leak in the middle of the living room. Sam places the same pot he made rabbit stew in the year before under the leak and lets it collect the water until he can get up there and fix it properly. And while it rains, he cleans and dusts. He organizes all the books he read over the last year, first by title and then by author. And when that’s not good enough, he tries to rearrange them by color, by size, by the order in which he read them. He falls asleep at the bookcase, his neck slung over his arm.

In the morning, he’s woken up by the knob of the front door squeaking. He panics awake, a pinch in his neck vocalizing itself from the way that he slept. He pulls his knife from out of the back waistband of his pants and tiptoes to the space next to the door. He waits as the door knob turns again, this time fully and watches as the door is pushed open. The morning sun blinds his vision as a shadowy figure steps through the threshold. And he doesn’t think about it, he just reacts--instinct taking over completely.

Sam leaps from the shadows and shoves the figure, and he’s surprised when he’s met with a pair of equally strong arms shoving him back against the wall. His eyes try to make out details, but his right leg is up and kicking before the intruder can get too close. His foot makes solid contact with the stranger’s chest and sends him backward, tripping over the pot of water in the middle of the floor. Sam lurches away from the wall and tumbles fastly on top of the fallen figure. They wrestle for a minute, hands and arms flying recklessly. First Sam’s got him pinned beneath him, but it only lasts a second before he’s tumbling over and landing hard onto his back. It knocks the breath from his lungs, has him heaving out and gasping. But when he finally opens his eyes, he finds himself looking up into familiar spring green eyes, the shadow fading away and revealing the miracle that walked through the front door.

And Sam’s still gasping when his Brother smiles down at him and whispers--

_Whoa, easy tiger._


End file.
